Handholding
by Sorrel
Summary: Post-Chosen, Buffy mourns and Spike finds his way home.


**Part One: Letting Go.

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**

Everyone was asleep, finally. It had been a long few months, followed by a long battle and a longer bus ride. She'd felt every bump and rut between Sunnydale and LA in his tired bones and aching muscles, and she was one of the better off. Angel had been waiting for her, just like she'd known he would be, and she'd managed to get all of her wounded new Slayer and assorted friends, family, and civilians settled in the ample room of the Hyperion Hotel.

Angel had seen her take notice of the symbol painted on the floor, and his gaze had dared her to comment on it.

So everyone was asleep, getting the rest that they deserved after winning the war of their lives. Everyone but her, of course. She was wide awake and wandering the darkened halls of Wolfram and Hart, hoping that some miracle would occur and she'd get tired enough to sleep.

She stopped by a door that bore a discreet bronze nameplate reading, "Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, Translations and Ancient Prophesy." She considered the lateness of the hour and the smell of alcohol on Wesley's breath when she'd met him earlier, and decided that he would he at home, and not able to stop her from getting into the bottle of Scotch she was sure he kept in there.

She tested the doorknob and found it unlocked, so with a shrug she opened the door and went on in.

There was a small lamp on his desk, casting a golden glow across the floor. She glanced to her right, and saw a tall cabinet that was the most likely candidate for the Scotch.

A voice from behind her interrupted just as she was getting the door open. "Not that I care one way or the other, but is there a reason you're going through my cabinet, Ms. Summers?"

Buffy spun around to see Wesley on the couch next to the door, his eyes gleaming in the semi-dark. Her own eyes quickly adjust, and she saw that the dark lump on the couch next to him was actually Faith, stretched out asleep with her head pillowed on Wesley's thigh.

"Couldn't sleep," she answered honestly. "I was hoping you'd have some alcohol."

"It's in the desk," he said, nodding towards the piece of furniture in question. "Why can't you sleep?"

"I don't know," she confessed, sitting down on an empty corner of the desk. "I'm exhausted. I haven't slept well for weeks." She paused, wondering how much it was really safe to tell him, then gave a mental shrug and thought, _what the hell._ "The bed just feels too empty, you know?"

He smiled tiredly at her. "I do indeed know what you mean. You're speaking of Spike, I presume?"

She stiffened. "How did you-"

"Faith filled me in on recent events," he said, stroking the girl's cheek with one finger. He smiled wryly and it transformed his face, lighting his grim and in-dire-need-of-a-shave features into something that made her want to smile back at him. "Angel was complaining about it, as well."

She sighed gustily and slumped back against the desk. "I figured. I'm really grateful for all the help he's giving us, but from the moment I've gotten here he's been a little..."

"A little what?" he prompted, when she trailed off.

"A little clingy," she admitted in a rush. "He was hovering, and when I told him Spike was gone, he just smirked."

"Angel is a hoverer by nature," Wesley pointed out. "And he is prone to jealousy."

"So are we all," Buffy said with a sigh. "Not that we all admit it, of course."

Wesley smiled slightly at that, and they sat in comfortable silence for a minute. Buffy watched him, slightly hypnotized by the slow movement of his hand as he stroked it over Faith's tangled curls.

Faith looked so young when she was asleep, Buffy thought, with no reason whatsoever other than the fragmented pattern of her tired brain. Of course, everyone looked younger in their sleep, but Faith looked so old most of the time, so hardened, that it was easy for Buffy to forget that the girl was, in fact, a couple years younger than she herself.

She wondered how old she looked. To other people. She knew how she looked in the mirror, but that depended on how she felt at the time. Sometimes, when it had been a long day, she thought she looked ancient, much older than her years. And then something would happen and she couldn't prevent it and she couldn't help but notice how young she looked. How unfit for the life she led she really was. Even when they won, she always felt like she was never enough.

"I'm so tired," she said suddenly, breaking the long silence. "Months we've been fighting, and we just kept losing ground, and losing ground, and the harder we fought the worse things got. And then things were at their worst, and I was ready to just roll over and die, and there was Spike, just like he'd always been there, whether I wanted him or not. He talked to me, and then just held me and watched me sleep, and it was enough to give me the strength to keep going. And then I found the scythe, and killed Caleb, and we went into battle. And thanks to Spike, we won. We saved the world.

"But I lost Spike.

"I didn't see him die. I was the last one out, and even so I was running for my life when he burned up. But I was there right before the end, and I told him I loved him.

"Only he didn't believe me. So he died like that, not believing that I loved him, and I'll never have the chance to convince him, because he's gone.

"Pisses me off, you know? He was always so damn stubborn. Chased me for years, never gave up, and just when I handed him what he'd always wanted, he didn't believe me, and now I'll never get the chance to get it through his rock-hard head that I was telling the truth.

"And now I'm here, and Angel is dogging my every step, happy that the competition is gone. What he doesn't understand is that Spike wasn't his competition, because Angel isn't even in the running anymore."

She finally stopped, and just stared at her hands. "That sounds so harsh," she said softly. "But it's true. Even a day ago it wouldn't have been, but it is. All I can remember now about our relationship is a few sweet moments and a lot of heartbreak. Angel made the decision to leave me for my own good. Spike loved me enough to stay."

"And when you love someone, nothing and no one can really take their place."

Buffy looked sharply at Faith, still sound asleep in his lap, but he shook his head. "Not Faith. We've come to an understanding of sorts, because we share some things that others don't. But I'm not in love with her." He smiled very slightly. "Accept no substitutes. I can't trade a gorgeous dark Slayer for a sweet and brainy physicist, and you-"

"Can't trade a tall, dark souled vampire for a bleached blonde one." She looked at him, tilting her head to the side. "Fred, huh? Does she know?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "I can't imagine that she doesn't know, but I haven't told her, precisely."

She smiled slyly. "I noticed that she's single. You should say something." When he just shook his head, she offered, "Ask her to dinner?"

Another head shake.

"I have it on good authority that coffee is the non-relationship drink of choice."

He smiled slightly at that. "I've heard that as well. However, I doubt that Fred would be interested in the offer."

"Why not?"

"There was... a woman," he began tentatively. "Not exactly a prevailing force of good. In fact, she was head of Special Projects, here at Wolfram and Hart, before it came under Angel's control. She was attacked by Angelus, a few weeks ago, and to prevent her from rising again as a vampire, I was forced to behead her." Buffy winced in sympathy. "Of course, thanks to the standard perpetuity clause, she's still occasionally wandering around, causing trouble. Fred's not likely to forget any time soon."

Buffy sighed. "So we're both screwed up in love, huh?"

He nodded. "Essentially."

"At least we still have the mission, right?"

He smiled ruefully. "I think it's safe to say that we'll always have that."

She smiled back at him and jumped off the desk. "Hey, thanks for listening to my tale of woe. You could have just handed me the Scotch and shooed me out the door."

"No, I couldn't," he said positively. "And you did your fair share of listening yourself."

"Yeah, well, turnabout's fair play and all that. Or something like that, anyway."

She started for the door, but his soft voice halted her. "The Scotch is still in my desk, if you want it."

She glanced back over her shoulder and smiled at him. "Nah. I think I can sleep now. I'll see you tomorrow, Wes." She glanced ruefully at the clock, which read 3:42 am. "Later today, I guess. Much, much later." She waved- cheerfully, he thought, and left his office, closing the door behind her with a quiet click.


End file.
